


Into The Deep And Through

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bathing/Washing, Consensual Gangbang, Consensual Nonmonogamy, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Support, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Meme, Love, M/M, Pampering, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Tenderness, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale changes some of Crowley's routines for the better.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/others
Comments: 43
Kudos: 299





	Into The Deep And Through

Crowley drives himself home.

He always drives himself home once it's all over.

There's something almost ritualistic in the way he pulls his clothes on again. Barely bothering to wipe away the worst of the streaks and damp patches left on his skin. He lets it soak into the material of his shirt, lets the denim of his jeans smear it further up his thighs and then clamp to his skin.

But he does make absolutely certain to keep pushing the suggestion that his eyes are completely human, until his glasses are firmly over them, until he's in the driver's seat of the Bentley, hands tight round the wheel.

He's not quite ready to slip out of his skin yet, to stop living in it, to stop _feeling it_. He wants to feel it. The deeper in he is at the start, the better it will be at the end. The softer the fall will be. The fall is always so good. So much better than it used to be - than it's ever been.

The material of his shirt rasps uncomfortably against the mess of his own skin, where sweat, saliva and semen has dried. The slope of his neck and chest are flaking uncomfortably and his mouth tastes like the purest, rawest form of humanity. He has to wonder if he tastes the same now, since he always forces himself to be as human as he can on nights like tonight. He lets himself experience everything the way they would, pushing his corporation to be soft, to be bruiseable and vulnerable and _real_. As many times as it takes. 

His skin throbs at the memory, and even that's a pleasure.

He can feel the mess between his thighs as he drives, legs shifting apart and then together in every absent moment. He's still aware of it, in the way a human can't be, hanging onto those perfect overlapping memories. He lets himself experience it all over again as he drives. He can still feel it, every press of weight, every bend of leg, every excited stroke of hand, wet press of mouth and thrust of fingers. Every bite and grip and strain. Every single body that had curved over him, or behind him, every push that spread his thighs or buttocks and filled him. Bare skin pressing in from the front and the back, speared between two bodies - three bodies - feeling the hot rush of some strange human's breath against his mouth and the back of his neck.

He's still vibrating with it, still wound tight from the memory of heat and skin and friction that he always needs - needs so badly - but is never quite enough to fill him.

Crowley shuts the Bentley off and heads into his building.

The lift is empty, the sides showing him his own reflection, the mad spread of his hair, gripped by more hands than he could count, and the creased, damp press of his clothing. His collar is stretched, his thin scarf askew. The crotch of his jeans is probably dark by now, his untidy slouch encouraging the mess to leak out of him and soak into the denim.

He's shaking a little.

This is what he wants, this is exactly what he wants.

Doing it on his own had always scratched an itch, left the inside of his head soft and malleable, the length of his body wrung out and over-stretched and exhausted to his bones. He used to come back to the flat and sink into the bath after, banish his arms and his legs and just exist in the hot water for a while. He'd drift until he felt real again, a furious ocean finally calmed and still.

But this -

This is more than he'd ever thought he could have. The fact that Aziraphale could have known what he wanted, when he hadn't even known himself, that he could slip into that want so easily, make it real, make it something just for them.

The doors open, the long stretch of the hallway taken in a more unsteady saunter than usual. He opens the door of his flat with shaking fingers.

Aziraphale is standing a little way inside, holding himself with his hands tucked behind his back. Serene like he would have waited in that pose for Crowley for hours.

"Hello, darling."

Something inside Crowley jolts and expands. It's not pleasure but it's something like it. A squeezing hot certainty that Aziraphale will be here, every time, whenever he needs him. However he needs him. Trying to fit that thought inside his head still takes him a moment, even after Aziraphale has proven, time and again, that it's true.

Crowley drops his keys and phone on the table and slinks all the way inside. The angel moves towards him, reaches out with his soft, strong hands and wraps them around Crowley's waist, grounds him to earth in one simple gesture.

He doesn't care how Crowley looks, or what he smells like, or where he's been. He leans in and presses a kiss to the bruised redness of his mouth, and Crowley feels something inside him crack open, a pressure he hadn't realised was there easing just a little.

"I'm running you a bath." Aziraphale strokes his hair, smiling at its disorder, uncaring of the pieces that are stiff and brittle. Or the strands that are still slick from greedy, oiled fingers. He rearranges it in a way that feels like an excuse just to touch him. Then his hand slides all the way down Crowley's arm, catching hold of his chilled fingers and urging him to follow.

Steam is already rising from his large bathtub, which is always white for this. Crowley doesn't know if Aziraphale changes it, or if it's one of his own strange subconscious whims. He already knows the water will be hot, knows the way it will feel on his skin, the way it will drain the heaviness and the ache from his limbs.

"Would you like some help getting undressed?"

Crowley nods, not quite up to speaking just yet.

Aziraphale lifts his hands and slowly works the knot on Crowley's tie loose. He always does, Crowley doesn't have the heart to tell him that it's not supposed to be undone, that the whole thing is made to slip over your head. There's something soothing about watching the angel work it open, teasing the knot apart and pulling it free. It's set on the chair that wasn't in his bathroom yesterday, and the angel's hands slide carefully under his shirt, moving up his ribs as they slowly bunch it, before lifting it over his head.

Crowley watches him shake it out, white flakes of dried semen drifting free, before it's also folded and placed on the chair.

The jeans are unsnapped with an efficiency that speaks to how often the angel has undressed him. Maybe more often than Crowley has ever undressed himself. Aziraphale slips a hand inside to make sure the zip doesn't catch anything when he slowly draws it down. He's so careful pushing the sides down Crowley's hips, the faint imprint of fingers already blooming where the skin is thin. Aziraphale strokes his thumbs gently across the marks, makes a soft noise of discovery. Crowley's throat squeezes, looses a noise that's cracked and shaky. His whole body throbs when the angel draws denim down his thighs, the crotch soaking and messy where he'd been leaking during the drive home, the walk from the Bentley, the journey up in the lift.

Aziraphale's hand circles his wrist, lifts it and settles Crowley's hand on his shoulder, urges him to raise a leg. He does as he's bid, hard scales melting away for the stark lines of his bare feet. His jeans and belt are folded neatly and placed on the chair as well. Crowley knows they'll be gone before he's finished in the bath, but Aziraphale has a system, he has a routine and Crowley can't bear the idea of doing a single thing to change it.

The angel runs his warm hands up Crowley's bare legs, feeling the shape of them, the dark hair beneath his fingers, the faint bruises in the muscle. It's so different to the way the humans have been touching him for hours. There's no hot, eager desire, no greed, no hissed requests in his ear, no bites, no pinning him open, no hunger that leaves him squirming and pushing and stretching to take more, to take as much as they can give him, _more than they can give him_. He can't hold a quiet sigh at the memory. But then Aziraphale curls his hands around his long thighs and urges him to part them, urges Crowley to show him, and all the breath lodges in his throat as he does as he's bid, adjusts his stance so the angel can see everything.

His vulva feels hot and sore, his labia red and swollen where he'd been spread open, offered up and used. What must have been hours of rough and repeated friction. He'd been fucked open so many times, stretched and filled by fingers, and cock and hard silicone - sometimes all at the same time - until every punching thrust had felt raw, until every new penetration had been a sweet, delicious sting. 

Now everything is slick and aching, throbbing insistently on the slightest movement. But Crowley still can't help the way his cunt clenches desperately, arousal sharp in every cell of him, at the slow, gentle drift of fingers against the tacky mess on his thighs. Most of it has dried, or soaked into the material of his jeans, but it's still running out of him, still so wet when the angel takes his hand and very gently encourages him to lift a leg and step into the bath, foot sinking into the heat of the water.

"Easy now, there's no need to rush," Aziraphale tells him, voice all softness and honey. Lending the whole moment a strange dream-like feeling.

Crowley obeys, pulling his other leg over the side and slowly lowering himself into the exquisite heat. It stings when he slips into it, his sensitive cunt, clitoris and the stretched rim of his arse all briefly objecting to the touch of the water, before the heat of it slowly sinks into him and he gives a hiss of pleasure, leaning back against the white porcelain on a sigh.

"Angel." It's the first word that makes it out of him, a breath that's cracked at the edges. But Crowley can't say that word without feeling it.

Aziraphale lets him float for a while in the warmth of it, as he lifts bottles from the small shelf above the sink, humming under his breath to break the silence, or to remind Crowley that he's still there. Crowley's eyes are half-shut when Aziraphale slips in behind him and starts pouring water through his hair, carefully separating the strands that had dried hard and foul. Strong fingers are gentle as they rub shampoo into his hair, until his entire scalp is tingling and sensitive. It's such a soothing motion, affection in every slow back and forth. Until Crowley's hair is rinsed, then rinsed again, and then simply stroked, the wet strands falling against his temples and forehead.

He's left to sprawl against the side, steam rising from the water while the angel collects towels and exactly the right kind of soap, and finally vanishes Crowley's clothes.

But Aziraphale eventually comes back to Crowley, he always comes back to Crowley. He sinks to a kneel beside the bath and smiles, then raises damp fingers to push a fall of wet hair out of his eyes. He's found a flannel, a checkerboard of black and red, which he carefully soaks and wrings out and soaps, before lifting Crowley's arm. The cloth is warm and there's barely any pressure at all to the pulls as it slowly draws sweat and dirt from his forearm and hand, both his own and the humans he'd spent the night with. He watches the hair darken and flatten, watches the angel wash him until there's nothing but the faint shine of water on his skin.

"Did you have a good time?" Aziraphale asks. Voice soft over the steady drip of water.

Crowley nods and stretches his legs, feeling the twinges of complaint from overworked muscles and abraded knees. He'd been stretched and folded and bent and held in so many positions, and though he'd enjoyed every one of them, demanded and praised and encouraged every new body to have him - to be floating in the water now always feels like the destination he'd been waiting to reach. To come back to this. To be this soft quiet thing for the angel to settle and soothe.

Aziraphale moves to his chest and neck, working the cloth gently on the line of dried semen down his throat, the smear of arousal at his chin. Until the passes of the flannel feel more indulgent than efficient, and that's soothing as well, the idea that Aziraphale enjoys this too, that it fills a need for him as well. The angel presses his fingers curiously over the faint impression of teeth in Crowley's shoulder, before carefully washing it, letting the water run down, leaving Crowley's chest hair flat to his skin and his nipples pebbled and flush-pink.

"Did they please you?" Aziraphale asks, he always asks.

"Yes," Crowley says honestly. They always please him, demanding, insatiable, greedy thing that he is. Long past the point where a human would have waved them off, begged exhaustion, demanded ice for the raw, aching tenderness of their genitals. When his body starts to feel liquid, when the words come out bitten into pieces, when the rhythmic bounce and jolt is like a heartbeat he can follow, filled and then emptied and filled again. The wet sounds of his own cunt and arsehole lewd enough to leave him breathing laughter into the pillows. "Yes, angel, they pleased me."

Aziraphale smiles, a soft thing that Crowley feels like the most affectionate punch. His breath shudders out of him as the flannel is worked carefully across his cheeks and beneath his eyes.

"You please me too," he adds honestly. "Always, so much, so hard I don't know what to do with it sometimes."

Aziraphale pauses for a moment to cup his face, to lean in and kiss him, and nothing about that should feel like being cracked open, like being emptied out. But Crowley wouldn't give it up for anything.

The cloth is raised again, moved along his thighs in gentle sweeps. There are bruises just starting to show in the muscle and his knees are scraped and red. Aziraphale heals none of it, and Crowley hums contentment as he soaps gently, bubbles and streaks of foam laid on his skin, before being washed away, leaving him smooth and pink and clean. Aziraphale eases his knees apart and works the cloth between them with gentle strokes. The angel is careful with his inner thighs, with his sore, reddened vulva and clitoris, and then the sensitive ring of his anus. He can't help the soft, pained noises he makes as the flannel washes there, before being rinsed and squeezed, then hung over a small rack to dry.

"Angel."

"Out you get," Aziraphale says, voice all soft encouragement.

Crowley doesn't protest. He sets his hands down and pushes himself to his feet, his body streaming water. The angel lifts a wine dark robe so deep and so soft that Crowley has no choice but to surrender to it.

"You're a rather fetching shade of pink," Aziraphale tells him, rubbing at Crowley's hair with one of his own fiendishly dark towels. Crowley feels like he should probably object but finds himself humming agreement instead. Sinking into that slow rhythm. "Would you like to sleep for a while now?"

Crowley thinks about it. About the slow thrumming of his body and the angel's bright curve of a smile.

"Stay with me for a bit. I like when you help me sleep."

Aziraphale looks as if he'd been hoping for exactly that, and he ushers Crowley through the flat, to his dark room, to his deep and inviting bed with its fresh sheets that smell suspiciously of miracles and familiar cologne. As if the angel has been sleeping there while he was gone. The noise that breaks out of him is nothing fit for a demon, but it wins him the curl of an arm around his waist and a kiss to his cheek. Crowley tips his head, lays his face in the angel's hair and breathes him in. Aziraphale is here, he's always here to come back to. It's hard to call it anything other than an embrace when Crowley's arms slip around him, and the angel squeezes him tightly. It's so much easier to be this after he's been someone else.

His robe is untied and drawn back over his shoulders, the chill prickling his skin until Aziraphale urges him down into the bed, where the sheets are furnace-warm beneath him. He sinks down with a sigh, naked limbs spreading to soak in the unexpected warmth. Aziraphale watches, dark robe still held in both hands as if he'd forgotten it was there. Crowley blinks up at him, lets the angel admire him in silence until he smiles as if caught and hangs the robe up, moves to the small drawer next to the bed, where there's a wide oval thickness of silicon, a remote and a bottle of lubricant.

Crowley's arms reach beneath the pillows, and he hisses an affirmation when Aziraphale carefully sets all three on the bed.

"Won't need that," Crowley murmurs, long toes pressing to the bottle. There's a slow thump of arousal in him still, his vulva hot, slickness still glistening every time he shifts his thighs.

"We'll see." Aziraphale settles on the bed and Crowley reaches a hand down, curls it around the warmth of the angel's knee, needing something to hold, something familiar and old and well-loved to ground him.

"Spread your legs, darling," the angel urges.

Crowley is sore, he's so sore and he's been filled up so well, for so long, but his heels drag up and apart in the sheets, exposing everything to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looks his fill, eyes sweeping the whole of Crowley's body, before drifting back between his legs. "There we go, you beautiful thing, they must have adored you. They must have thought themselves lucky beyond reason."

"Aziraphale -" Crowley wants to object, but the angel doesn't give him time.

"Hush," he says quietly. He uses the bottle anyway, spreading it patiently on the egg-shape, until it looks slick and wide in Aziraphale's hand. Crowley wants it. He knows it will sting, knows he's had so much inside him already. But the thought of the angel rubbing it over him, easing it up into him with his thumb - his toes curl in the sheets.

"Tell me when you're ready."

"M'always ready for you," Crowley says. He reaches up, catches Aziraphale's wrist and draws it down, urges him to press that glistening shape against the open heat of him.

"Very well then." Aziraphale nudges the oiled toy gently between the spread folds of Crowley's labia. "Open up for me."

Crowley moans at the soft request, legs swinging wide easily. He's had his thighs open for so long, and they feel over-stretched and tight, a burn deep in the muscle. But Aziraphale gives a soft hum of appreciation at the sight, one hand circling Crowley's ankle. Crowley slips a hand behind one knee and draws it upwards, leaving himself stretched all the way open. An obscene offering for his angel.

Only then does Aziraphale switch the toy on.

The vibration goes deep. Crowley's already so sensitive, and that throbbing shuddering hum has him moaning in his throat, hips jerking like they're not sure whether to crawl away or press into it harder. It's pleasure and it's also pain, something tired and exhausted in every catch of breath, every slide of his heels in the sheets.

" _Aziraphale._ "

The angel gives him exactly what he wants, with presses and shifts and rubs as Crowley clenches on nothing. He's so sensitive, teeth gritted as the toy rolls over his clit again and again, before slipping back down to tease a stretch of his aching, burning sex. Only to slip away again just before it breaches him.

"One more," Aziraphale says quietly. He bends down and Crowley takes his kiss like a blow, gasping into the angel's mouth as he presses the toy more firmly into his sex, the slickness of it rubbing between the swollen redness of his clit and the bruised heat of his opening. "Just one more."

"Fuck." Crowley can't. He can't. It stings. It's unbearable. It's so good he's gasping in every breath. "M'trying."

"Just for me, my love." Aziraphale slides that rounded swell of silicone down, and then pushes it into him, where he's loose and sore and greedy for it.

"Ungh - fuck, angel, angel." Crowley clenches down on the gently thrumming width of it, a whine in his throat as his spine bends and his thighs shake, sparks of pleasure lighting him up as he grips and aches and trembles his way over. It's slow and reluctant, bruising and sweet and it leaves him sprawled in the sheets afterwards, useless legs spread wide, bunches of dark cotton scrunched in his fingers. He's panting gently, feeling the burn of his over-used body. Crowley drifts in that moment for a while as the angel gently withdraws the toy from him and then eases his legs into a more comfortable position.

The bed creaks as Aziraphale leans down, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," Crowley murmurs. "It was perfect, angel, s'always perfect."

That gets him another kiss, soft and lingering. Two fingers draw his hair aside and stroke over the curling shape of his serpent mark, and he feels it all the way down to his bones.

After a stretch of darkness and silence, Crowley's bedroom door very quietly shuts.


End file.
